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Barred: Austin’s Ale House
When: 3:35pm, Friday
There’s an undeniable truth that the farther you get from Manhattan and North Brooklyn, the more diverse the drinkers you find at ordinary bars. And they are done with work at 4pm. In fact, they are already drunk and loud at 3:30pm (never mind that you’re also in far out Queens on a weekday afternoon, beer in hand). Based on the wide range of age, gender, and ethnicities hanging out together in clusters at Austin’s Ale House, the only logical assumption can be coworkers. Me, I don’t socialize with workmates. Though I hear this is something regular people do.
Was I carded? Nuh uh.
Age appropriate? Yes, there were quite a few grown women, two solo, in fact.
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Barred: Acey Ducey’s
When: 5:54pm, Sunday
I have a ritual where I get a haircut in Kew Gardens, have a slice and a beer at Dani’s across the street then take the bus down Metropolitan to Forest Hills and have a drink or two at End of the Century Bar before drunk-shopping at Trader Joe’s, ending up with overflowing bags of things that sounded good at the time, then Lyft-ing home.
The tiki bar was closed so I stopped in Acey Ducey’s, technically not my first time because it’s where I had a pre-dinner drink at Sizzler when Sizzler still existed. It was all men mostly keeping to themselves minus a one in his 50s in a beige blazer who introduced himself to me as “The Spanish Dracula.”
At the same time, I heard someone say loudly “Fusilli Jerry” as Spanish Dracula was getting attention by holding up the side of his jacket over his face like it was vampire cape. Alice in Chains’ “The Rooster” started blaring, and that was my cue to drink up and get shopping.
Was I carded? I may have to drop this category at some point because no.
Age appropriate? For men. Maybe women too, though I was the only one there.
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Barred: The Pennsy & Tracks
When: 3:44pm & 5:02pm, Tuesday
The Pennsy and Tracks are like day and night, one airy and full of natural light (though sounding like a whimsical disease of yesteryear a la dropsy) the other a long, narrow chasm deep in the bowels of Penn Station. Or maybe it’s 2016 Midtown vs. 1981 Midtown (I have no idea when Tracks came into being but since I always think it’s spelled Traxx, the Reagan years seem most fitting).
The Pennsy was mostly empty, many patrons were drinking coffee, and the bartenders wore suspenders and Levi 505s that read more lumberjack than old-timey mixed with a touch of British skinhead chic.
Tracks, which claims to have the longest bar in Manhattan, didn’t have a single empty seat. A few were occupied by middle-aged women in skirt suits, one with a pile of papers so she seemed important in a real estate or law-adjacent way. One woman had magenta hair, which felt cautionary to me since I’ve been dabbling off and on with a ‘90s shade of plum for the past few years.
Was I carded? No and no.
Age appropriate? Yes and yes. How exclusionary can a bar in an NYC train station really be?
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Barred: Valentine’s Bushwick Bar Crawl
Playing The Middle Ages game in Bushwick is a fool’s errand. And yet sometimes you have to drink cans of Genesee and well tequila in 16-degree weather until it feels like Valentine’s Day. Never mind that you will wish you were dead on Presidents’ Day.
Where: Central Station
When: A little after 6pm
Age appropriate? Not really.Where: The Shop
When: 7:30pm
Age appropriate? For men who like honky tonk, yes. I don’t think there were any ponytails yet I keep picturing that.Where: Heavy Woods
When: Roughly 9pm
Age appropriate? I want to say no, but I stopped paying attention by this point and started focusing on my fried chicken biscuit sandwich.Where: Pearl’s Social and Billy Club (previously)
When: 10-ish
Age appropriate? Nope. And despite the name, the vibe always feels vaguely anti-social.Where: The Cobra Club
When: 11pm or so
Age appropriate? There were a few non-young men. Ladies? No, I don’t think so. Then again, I saw a photo the next day showing a slice of pizza and I don’t remember that either. -
Barred: Bierocracy
I wasn’t going to mention Bierocracy at all except that I ended up there twice in a week. It’s a different scene after work on a Wednesday (old folks and babies are thrown into the mix) compared to closer to midnight on a Friday (average age 31) but more importantly is that it falls into that “second city” category, or tier-2 as the non-Beijings and Shanghais are called in China, that I’m encountering more and more in NYC.
The staff is nice, the patrons chatty, ‘90s radio grunge rocks at a perceptible but not intrusive volume, sliders and kale salads can be consumed, but if it weren’t for the $14 cocktails and the looming Manhattan view if you cared to step outside, you would have no idea you were in New York.
I wouldn’t say Bierocracy would fit in Wilmington, DE, but I read this awe-inspiring wedding tale while sipping a Bayreuther Zwick’l (and trying not to hate-click “She Went to a College for a Job, and Found a Husband, Too” ) and it seemed appropriate.
Ok, talk may turn Queensy if initiated, as it did with the Long Island City real estate broker sharing our communal table who clearly has never been to Jackson Heights if he thinks I’m sitting on a gold mine (talk to me in five years if I can hold out) and that there are hipsters anywhere near Roosevelt Avenue. Or his friend whose grandma lives near me, and visits are an excuse to go to Las Margaritas (oh, I know it).
Maybe wholesome is the word I’m looking for.
Was I carded? No. But card-related, the credit card minimum is $30 and that’s kind of strange and not very tier-2 of them.
Age appropriate? It can be. That’s the thing about US tier-2s, no one really judges and who are you trying to impress anyway?
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Barred: Mar’s
Depending on my mood and intent, Mar’s could be read two very different ways.
If I felt like talking about the food, it did what it needed to do and I was pleased. Before the holidays, I was feeling a little down and a lot bougie, soliciting Facebook suggestions for the nearest place to find cocktails, oysters, charcuterie, the Brooklyn basics (#notallnegronis), which would still require public transportation because that’s how it is. Ultimately, I decided on new-to-me Mar’s in Astoria. (Astoria is like this black hole that’s only two-ish miles away and yet I haven’t heard of half of the contemporary bars and restaurants there.) Yes, that’s what I had in mind. Happy hour oysters and a drink involving pumpkin liqueur that by all rights should’ve been sweet and gross but wasn’t. I even stuck around for a full-priced steak tartare, generously portioned, grass-fed, and a glass of Tempranillo (that turned into two when it got topped off by the woman bartending). People were friendly on both sides of the bar.
But if I wanted to approach it as a Middle Ages subject, which I haven’t done in a while, it was kind of a strange, funny fail. The only human obviously over 40 was a salt-and-peppery man at a table, holding court among extended family. The bar was sparsely occupied by regulars. Two young men in patterned sweaters too muted to be signaling ‘90s childhoods, and which I’m fairly certain weren’t intended to be ironic, were getting ready to head to their families on Long Island. One was talking about his Aunt Stacie who drinks too much and recently got a boob job, and I caught myself internally agreeing with absurdity of an old, drunk woman vain enough to think she needs nice tits. When asked how old she was, he said, “I don’t know…maybe 40? 45?”
I felt relieved when the second-oldest woman, 35 at best, appeared at the bar alone. After one drink, though, she morphed from quiet and sensible into authoritative and sassy and struck up a conversation with the only overtly single guy, a clean-cut, paperback-clutching beardo of the type that I’ve only started being able to recognize as handsome in the past few months. I kind of wanted this woman whose New Year’s resolution was to “have more fun” to stop talking even though I know that’s not what I’m supposed to say, and I was just jealous that she was starting her fun early. I was also fascinated because a friend just asked today whether anyone asks anyone out in person anymore and I never witness it but maybe in Astoria? Maybe they are married now because they both read books.
I didn’t stick around to find out. And I was “ma’am’ed” by a man when I asked for my check, which became divisive when I complained about it on social media, going as far as saying I’ll leave a lower tip if addressed as such even though I realize the intent is politeness.
Earlier, I asked Aunt Stacie’s nephew if there was a female equivalent to a mensch. It was decided there is not.
Mar’s * 34-21 34th Ave., Astoria, NY
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Barred: Spritzenhaus
When: Saturday, 11:18pmLike a mini-Murray Hill, the corner that Spritzenhaus inhabits can be off-putting with its overflow of khaki cargo shorts and shouty clumps (80/20 male to female ratio) occupying picnic tables (there is a rule that under-30s can’t leave the house with fewer than five friends). No one has lived apart from a mid-sized town for more than three years, 718 tattoos aside.
And yet there is some deeply weird shit going on within the brick walls and just beyond them. I can’t recall the last time–maybe never–I encountered such a concentration of middle-aged revelers in North Brooklyn. My first assumption was that the cropped pants crew of short-haired ladies, the red-and-black Talbot’s blazer woman with a balding dad jeans, and the suburban bikers all attending the same party, as if all old people must like other old people (similar to how Tinder considers 49+ to be one vast category–if you’re open to dating 50 year olds, you may as well bang a dude who’s 75) but each was its own distinct social group.
Outside the picture windows, a group in their 50s, men in fedoras and a two women, one with a sharp black-and-white bob à la Terri Nunn were strutting toward a parked car. This scene ruined my theory about millennials traveling in packs; perhaps an aversion is uniquely Gen X. Swingers, I swear.
One theory that still holds true is that Williamsburg, and to a lesser degree Greenpoint, are mayhem on weekends but it’s a relatively short, concentrated burst. On my way back to the G around 2am, I passed by Spritzenhaus and it and the cavernous space was mostly empty.
Age Appropriate? Yes, counter-intuitively. One of the women in the biker crew, who resembled a younger Kim Gordon in cords, had to put on reading glasses to look at the beer list and I could admire that.
Was I carded? Yes, and I imagine everyone walking up the steps to the entrance is asked for I.D.
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Barred: Bierleichen and Onderdonk & Sons
Image: BencorioartWhen: Sunday, 6:51pm and 9:04pm
My notes from the new (at the time I actually went–I’ve been busy the past few months) Ridgewood heavy metal beerhall, Bierleichen, read “Awesomely mixed. Is metal the great equalizer?” by which I meant tribally diverse, not age-wise. On an early Sunday there were Latino dudes, a mixed gender rockabilly crew, man bun hipsters, generic young white people like you see in Astoria and could either be Midwest transplants or children of immigrants who haven’t moved to the suburbs yet, and an errant older gentleman I assumed to be Eastern European because all Ridgewood bars, even the upstarts, are required by law to accommodate at least one hold out.
Bierleichen, to its credit, is going for something different than a lot of new drinking establishments. Beer corpse, the name’s translation, is funny, for one. It’s not super polished. It looks like it set up in an old garage (and I think it may have been) with a lot of rough wood ceiling beams, raw cement floors and walls, glossy black subway tile for a little class, softened by skylights and hanging plants. There’s a random upright piano, picnic tables and those glass beer stein boots. And yes, Judas Priest, Scorpions and Danzig all got play on my visit. This might also be the only place in the neighborhood–a pretty good sausage neighborhood–where vegans can participate in sausage-eating.
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Onderdonk & Sons, on the other hand, is sticking with the established tin ceiling, exposed brick and rich, dark woods aesthetic. I mean, it looks good and the booths are comfy. There is also no hard liquor despite screaming cocktail den. The fries are way better than average, by the way.
This crowd was younger, more male, more foreign (Brazilian? Russian?) and more neck-tattooed. I arbitrarily decided it was for overpaying airbnb guests. And probably Okcupid (not Tinder) dates.
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Third stop was the previously blogged Queens Tavern where we encountered a number of the same people who had been at the aforementioned two bars as if there were only three neighborhood bars to choose from and this was the logical order in which to visit them.
There are no shortage of Ridgewood bars for newcomers and they just keep coming. I recently met a young man who is somehow involved with a bar being Kickstarted called The Bad Old Days…which I can’t even. Like the ‘70s when white folks were lobbying for Ridgewood to get its own zip code to split from Bushwick? The late ’90s when I thought I lived an hour from civilization and area bars were patronized by neo-nazis not neu-metalheads? The dark ages before cafes served single-origin coffee and Vietnamese food could be found at all, let alone using grass-fed beef?
Was I carded? At both places, no.
Age appropriate? At both places, no, not literally, but it’s still Queens so who cares really.
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Barred: Sophie’s
When: Saturday, 10:07pm
Even with Saturday night kicking into gear in the East Village, the crowd at Sophie’s, perpetually post-college, was shockingly civilized. As if by magic a four-seater opened up as soon as my party of three entered the once-familiar threshold.
Maybe it was the work of the older gent (one of two) with a cane, not a staff, but who came to be called Dust Bowl Gandalf nonetheless for his crumple-peaked Depression-era hat and white whiskers.
One thing I don’t understand is how the jukebox–The Smiths, Stone Roses–remains in the ‘80s yet the bar’s average age always hovers around 26, now just with more beards and man buns. If it were up to me, the Violent Femmes song playing would be updated to “Gone Dadbod Gone.” As if on cue, a young, mildly schlubby dude in a flannel appeared as the tune came on, looked around for something or someone, and left. Bye. Gone.
Sophie’s is where in 1998, five months into being a New Yorker, I told Henry Thomas, Elliott from E.T., to meet me. And he did. Later, he would stop returning my calls and invited others to Sophie’s casually and familiarly as if it was his regular haunt and hadn’t just been introduced to it by me. Such is the way of grown child stars.
If I weren’t with my friend Jane on this particular night, the same friend who happened to be with me at Sophie’s that fated evening 16-and-a-half years ago (along with her boyfriend at the time who now co-owns Abraço three blocks away) I might not believe any of it transpired.
Was I carded? Yes, at the door. Before I arrived, the third member of my party was waiting outside and chatting with the doorman who told her people were always embarrassed about their age but were never older than he was. He didn’t look that old.
Age appropriate? Not for women on a weekend night, no. The last time I stopped into Sophie’s was nearly four years ago when I was feeling sorry for myself on my 39th birthday because a last-minute call for company at HiFi only turned up two friends. (Actually that still doesn’t sit right with me and is inducing the annual anxiety that makes me leave town if possible when the date arrives.) On the earlier side, sun still out, it was locals scene, including a few middle-aged couples.
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Barred: Bar URBO
When: Tuesday, 6:48pm
Lately I’ve noticed that if you tweet about a Times Square establishment, a nearby business you’ve never heard of will attempt to engage you in conversation. Something called The Three Monkeys wanted to know why I’d called URBO “the weirdo bar.”
Well…because it is weird.
PWeird,“ "crazy,” and “fancy” are all uncreative catchalls I frequently lean on. I can’t help it. In this instance URBO is weird because it’s in my office building where the Señor Frog’s is threatening to open any day. Up a massive spiral staircase that opens into an empty event space and catering kitchen, the second-floor bar is also large, more after-work than touristy, never mobbed, reasonably priced at happy hour, but more than anything the whole URBO complex is weird, enormousness aside, because the lofty, rough hewn-industrial aesthetic paired with Blue Bottle coffee, pork belly, and poached eggs as garnish is still out of place on the corner of 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue facing Chevy’s and Dallas BBQ. I believe that within ten years this Brooklyn shorthand will be the norm and that the entire swath of Times Square will be lit by Edison bulbs and filled with communal tables crafted from reclaimed wood.
Recently URBO has added stand-up comedy and “curated open mic” nights. Weird or crazy?
On the substantial walk from the bar to the very nice individual stall, floor-t0-ceiling door, bathrooms (one might say fancy) on the far side of the unused private dining area, “Sausalito” by Ohio Express was tinkling quietly over the speakers. On the subway ride home “Sausalito” by Ohio Express started playing in my earbuds. Definitely weird.
Was I carded? No one underage would even bother.
Age appropriate? Of course. Anything geared toward midtown drones will be to some degree. On this particular evening the bar appeared to be hosting an office party including a very non-young pregnant woman in a maxi dress.
